


Cascade

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Ficlet, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2382344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At night, Thomas Barrow takes what he can get of Jimmy Kent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cascade

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It doesn’t make any sense to picture it in a guest suite. They’d never get away with it, not being gone that long—it’d be more likely in a room they’re meant to be in, maybe a quick dust in the library, or in the sitting room, where Jimmy gets tired of manual labour and flounces over to the sofa instead, spreads out and beckons Thomas over, and Thomas shouldn’t even really be there but gravitates to those open arms all the same, into a quick dalliance before Mr. Carson can even notice they’re gone...

But it’s a fleeting fantasy that can never happen anyway, and it doesn’t matter if it makes any sense. Thomas pictures it in a guest room, a large, fancy one all done up for them—because, in this world, Jimmy is a far away prince: something befitting his beauty. He’s visiting the Abbey in pursuit of Lady Mary’s hand, but when the lights go out, it’s Thomas who slips into his room to undress him. Thomas slowly undoes the buttons of his waistcoat, shoves him gently backwards to the bed—Jimmy buckles and lands on the expensive sheets, hands sliding to smooth them out, and Thomas kneels down at his feet, pulling one boot loose, then the other. He runs all ten fingers and two undamaged palms up Jimmy’s knees, over and along Jimmy’s thighs, and he reaches in, leans up, when he gets to his prize. Dream-Jimmy grins that too-confident smirk and bends that centimeter down, blond hair sliding off his forehead as he tilts for a kiss...

Thomas shoves his hand, very much damaged, against his mouth to stifle his noises. He’s never quite tested how truly thick the walls are, and he’s not about to start tonight. His right hand is still in his pants, pumping slowly up and down while he pictures _Prince Jimmy_ behind his closed eyes, spouting promises to promote him and run away with him and lay him down in the middle of the cricket field, just to slowly descend on and swallow his cock. Thomas’ sweaty palm feels nothing like how he imagines Jimmy’s mouth, but it doesn’t matter; the fantasy’s _almost_ enough, and Thomas has always known that fantasies will have to be enough, and even though he _knows_ that’s especially true with Jimmy, he just can’t stop his mind from imagining those perfect-shaped lips wrapped around his—

The sound of the door creaking has Thomas stiff as a board in a heartbeat. He almost jerks up in bed, but years of quick thinking train him better; beneath the blankets, he carefully tucks himself away, still very hard and very wanting but smart enough to save face and try to hide his blush. He looks over his shoulder—a little light from the hall streams in. 

A figure slips around the door and shuts it quietly again: back to near-blackness. Jimmy’s figure creeps towards the bed like they’re still out in the hall and Mr. Carson’s just around the corner. Jimmy’s arrogant as the Dowager herself, but there’s no being over-confident in this. 

He doesn’t even ask if Thomas is awake or interested; he lifts up the corner of the blankets and sits on the mattress. Thomas scoots over, acutely aware that he never bothered to change out of his dirty undershirt and Jimmy’s in too-cute pajamas. Then again, Jimmy looks cute in everything. 

He settles down next to Thomas, head on the same pillow, close enough for Thomas to smell his stale breath. There’s no real greeting for this, but Thomas can see Jimmy trying. He bites his lip and mutters, “Thomas.”

“Jimmy.” It comes out choked. He wonders if Jimmy knows, could guess, that Thomas is a few minutes out of an about-to-brutally-fuck-him daydream. It’s probably obvious what Thomas was doing, anyway. Another man can always tell. 

Jimmy’s here for that anyway, always is this late at night. He cuts right to, “Will you touch me?” As if there’s any way Thomas would ever say ‘no.’

If he had any self-respect, he probably would. He’d say he isn’t a human pleasure toy and he’s not interested in someone who can’t be interested in him. But Thomas is too old, too tired, to be stupid enough to think he’ll get a better chance. So he grunts, “Sure,” like he always does. The best he’s got is that he doesn’t sound as excited as he once did, even if Jimmy’s dumb smirk does make his stomach do strange things. 

He uses his right hand. Always does. His left is distinctly _him_ , even with the bandage, and he knows Jimmy wants to think of someone else—someone soft and smooth with breasts and long hair and too much perfume, or whatever it is _normal_ men like about the ‘fairer sex.’ He doesn’t know if Jimmy thinks of someone specific, and he tells himself he’s never going to ask. He wants to put his hand on Jimmy’s body, on his broad, taut chest, and feel everything on the way down. But Thomas doesn’t want to rock this boat, so he goes right for Jimmy’s waistband, dipping underneath to bare skin. 

There’s a thrill in knowing he’ll be using the same sweat and spit he did on himself to ease the way. Jimmy doesn’t say anything about it, just curls up into the pillow, arms between them but not around Thomas, eyes drifting closed. In a way, that might be better. It lets Thomas look at his face without judgment. Thomas runs his fingertips down the length of Jimmy’s warm cock, not hard but not entirely soft. When Jimmy comes to him, it never is. Thomas toys with the shaft for a minute, teasing little touches and brushes with stray dips down to cup a pair of small, tight balls. This part is more for Thomas; he likes to map the area, to make a mental picture, to recount all the details to himself when he’s back alone. Jimmy doesn’t protest. He probably likes having his balls played with, just how he likes any kind of attention, and he makes a pleased humming noise when Thomas rolls them around in his fingers, tugging gently. 

Thomas licks his lips, is thankful Jimmy can’t see, and wonders vaguely what Jimmy’s crotch would taste like. Even hot and sweaty after a hard day’s work, Thomas would drop to his knees any time if Jimmy wanted to take this further. Maybe someday, once Jimmy realizes he could have that, he’ll take it—how could he resist pleasure held out on a sliver platter? Thomas won’t expect him to reciprocate. And he’s already talked himself into justifying this; why couldn’t he justify a little more...?

Maybe someday he’ll slip into Thomas room, climb right on top and slip inside Thomas’ body, murmur in his ear that it’s not that different than a woman’s, so it doesn’t count. God won’t care. Mr. Carson would, but bugger that. Thomas could interlock their fingers, Jimmy would get used to his hand, and he could roll around to the top and ride Jimmy hard, even though he’d want to top sometime, often preferred that, but if he could just _have Jimmy_ , he wouldn’t really care; he’d do just about anything—no— _anything_ , and they could find some sort of balance and be clever about it, secret, go on being happy anyway and show the world—

“ _Thomas_ ,” Jimmy moans, and it jerks Thomas back into the real world, with the very real Jimmy Kent under his blankets and damn close to him. Jimmy’s right hand latches onto his shoulder, squeezes, probably doesn’t dare go lower, but Thomas gets it. 

He mutters, “Alright, alright.” He lets go of Jimmy’s perfect balls and latches onto Jimmy’s perfect cock instead, squeezing once, just a little harder than necessary, as a scolding for being insistent. Jimmy hisses, but his lips stay upturned. Maybe it’s a good thing Thomas’ room isn’t pitch-black after all. Jimmy’s face is prettiest when it’s contorted in pleasure. 

Thomas doesn’t give Jimmy anything special. He doesn’t have to, really; he’s old enough to have this down to an art, and it’s second nature. He pumps Jimmy up and down at a steady rhythm, twists his hand a few times, applies just enough pressure without being painful. A few times at the top, he pulls higher than usual and swirls his thumb around the head, teasing the foreskin and rubbing the slit. Jimmy nearly buckles. He turns his face into the pillow and bites back a long, languid moan that makes Thomas so hard he could finish on his own before Jimmy even leaves. When he does leave, the smell of him will still be there; Thomas will turn into his pillow and inhale Jimmy’s musk and lie on the side of the bed that held Jimmy’s warmth, and he’ll think of Jimmy’s sweat-slicked hair and flushed cheeks and open lips. Sometimes he’s glad that Jimmy’s not new to this; Jimmy’s got decent stamina, he’ll last a fair time, and Thomas will have longer to savour the beauty. 

Then Jimmy breaks, and his hips start to piston forward. Thomas doesn’t say anything, just keeps going while Jimmy humps his hand, shoving all the way in and tottering half-out. If Thomas thought he could get away with it, he’d push the blanket away and look. He glances down anyway, staring at the shadows and mentally filling in the blanks. 

When Thomas looks back at Jimmy’s face, his eyes are open. They’re washed grey in the darkness, the sparkle very much alive. Thomas’ breath catches in his throat. Jimmy’s lips are wet and panting. 

An instant later, they close again. Jimmy shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, lunges into Thomas and works to muffle a roar. His cock twitches and bursts in Thomas’s hand, shooting a jet that Thomas quickly shifts to intercept, then a stream. Thomas does his best to catch it all, keep Jimmy’s clothes clean, definitely his own bedding. This is what towels and tongues are for. The mere thought of feeding it back to Jimmy makes Thomas shiver, and he nearly topples over the edge himself. 

Instead, he holds it together while Jimmy shudders to an end. He slowly peters out, stills, slumps forward, and Thomas’ bed isn’t big enough for that; Jimmy’s shoulder brushes Thomas’ arm. Jimmy’s knee presses into his thigh. Jimmy’s body is _so impossibly warm,_ and he smells like sex and sin. 

He sounds like a wreck and he looks even better, but for a while, he stays buried in the pillow, and Thomas is left on his own to stare and dream. 

If Thomas cared any less about scaring Jimmy away, he’d finish himself off against Jimmy’s pliant body and nuzzle into Jimmy’s neck, cuddle up for a good post-coital nap. But he’s calculated by nature, and he smartly waits for Jimmy to come down. 

Eventually, Jimmy shifts. He pushes back up onto his side, looks at Thomas with both a pleased and conflicted expression. He mumbles, “Thanks.”

Thomas drawls, “Don’t mention it.” It’s a light, flippant response, but it’s also a hard truth they both know all too well.

He has the sudden overwhelming urge for a cigarette. But that’s probably better left for when Jimmy’s gone and he’s finished. 

Jimmy brushes his side-swept hair back. His eyes slide down Thomas’ body, half-covered in the blankets, and for just a fraction of a second, Thomas wonders if Jimmy’s considering returning the favour. 

But then Jimmy pushes himself up and climbs out of the bed instead, straightening out his pajama pants and tugging down his shirt. It’d be nice if there were more to say, but there isn’t. 

He takes half a step towards the door, turns abruptly back, and leans over the bed. 

He places a closed, hard, strong kiss on Thomas’ lips too fast for Thomas to return it. 

Then he’s practically racing for the door, opening and slipping around it, and all Thomas can do is gape and wonder if he’s gone mad. The door closes; Jimmy’s gone. 

Thomas takes another few seconds to recover, then promptly rolls back over and buries his face in the pillow, fantasies all whirling in change.


End file.
